Hot Wheels

There's nothing quite like your first car. The independence. The responsibility. Turning the radio up, driving through McDonalds for fries and a chocolate shake. Never having to call home to have Mom or Dad pick you up. Rolling the windows down on a warm spring day.

My first car was a pink Pontiac Grand Am. Okay, so maybe not so much pink, but definitely mauve. A shade of light pastel red that would never be confused with another car in the mall parking lot. But two doors, a get-up when the light turns green, and freedom. I had come of age. In that car I piled far too many teenagers, crawling over the back seat to cram in like clowns in a volkswagon.

Sadly, the cancerous rust became inevitable, and slowly she began to show signs of irreversable aging. I loved her, but I also had my eye on another beauty, and when a beautiful blue, 4 door Saturn came for sale by owner, I didn't hesitate at the opportunity.

The Saturn was a bit more mature, not quite the high school flavor, but more a collegiate, soon-to-be-married style. But the reality that she burned a quart of oil once a week provided her with a short life span as well. I would have been saddened about her death but instead I drove away with a brand new Chevrolet Equinox SUV.

I never thought I would own a brand new car, and she didn't have a lot of features, but she was my baby. And I knew someday I would take my babies home in this car. She and I would be together forever.

Except that the babies grew, in size and number, and the little 5 seater filled all-too quickly. It became apparent that this family of 4 and all their stuff would not survive in the Equinox, and so the "m" word came into conversation.

Minivan. How could one word bring out so many associations? Soccer mom, car full of screaming kids, band practice, mom who spends hours upon hours in the car, shuttle service. How could I, a woman in her early thirties and determined not to give into the Eddie Bauer pleated jeans and turtleneck underneat her sweater, agree to this? It was repulsive and oh-so attractive at the same time. More space and sliding doors were things I believed I could only dream of.

After my cousin rolled her Jeep and needed a another car, we decided to take the plunge. We sold our baby and entered into minivan land. Hesitantly, cautiously, but with some definite excitement. And honestly, it's a sweet car, loaded with more than any of my previous cars ever had.

I love it. There, I said it. I embraced the sliding doors, the 7 passenger seating, and the deep trunk space with open arms. And yes, I do plan on spending hours in this car as my children grow older and sign up for a list of activities and opportunities. I will drive for field trips, games, practices, rehearsals and whatever else is needed. I will pick up friends, drop off nephews and nieces, cart the world (or at least the region) around.

From two door sports car to full passenger minivan. Back eventually to an empty nester driving a two door sports car? Or a forever-lover of a the minivan?

Reality Bites

Caden has many qualities that make him wonderfully unique, but a current "talent" surfacing frequently in our home is his ability to float in and out of both reality and fantasy life. After watching a television show, a movie, or reading a book, he often becomes one of the characters. He will change his voice, his language, his actions. He also expects me to do the same, based on a related character that he has chosen for me.

Example: after watching the movie "Bolt" (chosen for it's cool name), he randomly would become the dog named Bolt. Gratefully, Bolt is a talking dog in the movie, so Caden could verbalize to me Bolt's lines from the movie: "watch out for Dr. Calico!" "The green-eyed man is coming to get you!" In this fantastical re-enactment, I am usually Penny, the lovely red-headed girl who is a good friend to Bolt. In lesser times, I am Rhino, the obese gerbil/hamster/rodent-type character who spends most of the movie rolling around inside a plastic ball.

I've been dinosaurs of all varieties, monster trucks, different members of my extended family (and not all female), Veggie Tales, and every imaginable Disney character. It happens so often it has become a regular part of our household.

Too regular. One night we were awakened in the middle of the night to Caden screaming. He was still in his bed, so apparently he was having some sort of nightmare or night terror. "Green shirt! Green shirt!" he kept yelling. We attempted to calm him down, to rub his back and comfort him back to sleep. "Caden, ssshhh. It's alright. Go back to sleep." But Caden was restless, eyes still closed, the issue unresolved. Then David realized why. The boy in the bed was not Caden.

"Shh, Theodore. It's Dave Seville. You're a good little chipmunk. Go back to sleep."

And with that, the restlessness stopped and Caden--I mean Theodore--went peacefully back to sleep.